


Dynasty

by lutece



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Babies, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lutece/pseuds/lutece
Summary: Queen Daenerys Targaryen and Prince Consort Jorah Mormont at the birth of their twin daughters.





	Dynasty

Her nephew would make it to the capital from the North in at least two weeks’ time and it would be a worthy visit. To bide their time and appease their boredom at waiting for an announcement, the smallfolk of King’s Landing feasted in celebration and crafted meagre but sentimental banners for the occasion. There were garlands of sweet olives with washed skins that glimmered under the sun for boys, black and red woven silk strands swiped from the day’s labour for girls. They guessed at names over poor man’s beer and wine and held a unique fondness in their heart with enthusiasm they certainly hadn’t shown King Robert.

Daenerys couldn’t see it, though she could feel something had irrevocably shifted in the air. It felt like pride, and the searing buzz of hope.

Daecey suckled from her breast almost ferociously. Her mother tutted and swiped her finger, softly, gently, down the tiny bridge of the baby’s nose, and brought the scent of milk closer when she shifted her. The witch had said she would never bear another living child, but here she was, a conqueror and a mother.

“This one’s mine,” she mused aloud, “the one born of the fire like I was.” She remembered how the little thing had bitten her fingers quickly without any teeth, just fragility with tenacity.

Prince Consort Jorah in the chair immediately beside the birthing bed laughed, the corners of his eyes wrinkling approvingly. Neither of them could care that blood stained the sheets still, that they were impossibly weary. And when he wasn’t looking with devotion to his wife and queen, his gaze was fixated on the bundle in his own arms.

“I suppose then that she has her papa’s disposition,” he pointed out, looking back down happily to the latter. “Won’t Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal be happy to have sisters?”

Through her exhaustion, Daenerys could still muster an eyeroll. Daecey’s twin, Daella, elder by five minutes and already proving much calmer, lazily looked at the various noises around them through half-shut eyes. She had the start of purple orbs, and one day they would wonder what shade it would glint in the bright light, and fade to in the dark. Love came in at the eyes.

“It’s all right for you to sleep, little love,” Jorah cooed, and he pressed his lips softly to her temple, where downy wisps of platinum blonde blended into the skin of her crown turning porcelain. “I’ll always be here… I’ve got you safe.”

Daenerys’ heart swelled with a long foreign joy. She pressed her cheek to Daecey’s to mimic the display of affection and felt her nestle comfortably against her.

“You look very much a Mormont,” she murmured. After all the years of Jorah being the one observant in wonder, now she stared with adoration. “A bear with his cubs.”

“Aye, and you’re still mine as well.” The smile he flashed to himself was a cheeky one, and if she wasn’t incapacitated, he would have received a pillow embroidered with a three-headed, fiery dragon to the face. “Long as I live, my queen. My princess, my cub… Daenerys, I’ll look after you.”

She sincerely believed it. Jorah took a breath of a pause and his hand came to run at the back of hers when it was free, and his eyes were tinged in red and moisture all over again. She swore he had been worse at crumbling with emotion for the births, and he had not even been the one to bear them.

“I didn’t think I would father one child, let alone two princesses,” he said in disbelief. “Yes, two, twins…” That cheeky smile came back but it wasn’t making her irritated. Daenerys leant her head near his shoulder with a pleased and amused little noise when he asked, “However will we cope with two little dragons at her heels?”

She could still taste the bitter dehydration from the desert in Essos, sometimes. She could still feel the smouldering heat wrapping sticky layers on her arms and face, and how heavy the meat of her body had felt, and how she’d might as well have been dragging corpses on her journey as her Dothraki people had become skin and bones and wanted to fall into the history buried beneath the scorching sands.

Jorah was there to surrender his own food to her. To spend hours squeezing water out of any deposits he could, assuring her and becoming the greatest advisor she had. Level-headed, matured, strong, he was everything she had admired for a friend.

Then, he was everything she had envisioned for a confidante, a lover… a father. Daenerys closed her eyes for the beat of peace and considered this with confidence that they had been destined for each other, like all prophecies surrounding her. The deserved silence was broken solely by birds fluttering outside the window. Their wings hit at the railings like they wanted to see the new princesses with the same vigour as the smallfolk.

“Just as we’ve done everything, my bear,” she spoke eventually, mulling his question over earnestly, weakly and dreamily. “We’ll do it together, Jorah.”

Jorah’s lips met hers when she was tired and distracted. "You are so beautiful," he said. She smiled thinking of how the Targaryen dynasty had been reborn in fire, blood, and love.

**Author's Note:**

> Daella III = [Dae]nerys + Rhae[lla]
> 
> Daecey I = [Dae]nerys + Da[cey]


End file.
